


Leave You Alone

by metal_eye



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF
Genre: Angst, Intensity, M/M, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metal_eye/pseuds/metal_eye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam is touring overseas and thinking about Kris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave You Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2010, finalizing it (and its title) approximately 24 hours BEFORE Kris Allen played his song "Leave You Alone" for the first time. I wish I were kidding. The whole thing messed with me a lot.
> 
> But yeah, this is angsty and intense in a way that makes narrative sense to me but isn't really popular in fandom. Sorry?
> 
> Kradam... still my OTP, in a way. Not every affair works out, I guess.

Still trying to sift through someone else’s fingers, feelings—someone else’s vitals—like yours—and it’s useless, since I keep coming back to my own. It’s so self-absorbed, I can’t stand it—like a cardiologist obsessed with his own pulse. But when I’m halfway across this world, where do I take these things, these halted dreams, without you here? Half-breaths exit me like helium from a dead party balloon, and I’m hungover from the failed inflation. I can’t even finish my own sentences, honey.

I must try to find yours: your own sharpened lines, except untouched, unscabbed. You were such an open heart valve, so aortal and obvious, before I came in and rubbed your surface raw. You could handle it, you said. You were the one who finished what the universe had started, that final coming together, that fusion.

And it dirtied you—dug new lines (of age, of lie, of what?) that ought to now fade with my focus on them. The more I carve crow’s feet into your side-eyes, the more your previous life-plan mocks my intent. I don’t have to do this, it says—you could allow me unsee you so that I’m crosseyed, so that I bring my eyes to the corners of their lids, creating puddles of hazy warmth where my pointed desires would be.

I ought to take the extra dimensions we’ve made and simplify. Simplify, leaving only want, an untainted drive. Yours, of course—not mine—so clean—perfect in its lack.

You can’t tell me our world’s not tainted. Not the way our lonely selves say, _Shh, shh, don’t tell them,_ then show up the next day under a spotlight and deny, deny, defer, prefer, pick one.

I try it and I don’t like it. To simplify. The two dimensions are easier, sure, but I can only touch one side of you at a time.

So I’m bleeding backwards, being barely there. It should be _better_. To leave you with your open heart, with _her_ , with that life, that _want_ that keeps you going. It’s a catalyst that keeps you singing. So selfish of me to want to silence it. Because the artists know that unresolved want is the real place of creation—not post-trolled paragraphs, raped and raped again by what I thought you wanted to say. Not this consummated needle-edit of your sex life, blood drawn on white, as if to say, how adorably virgintile. How quaintly intact. How whitely perfect you were (before me).

But your want still finds me. Somehow the damning streaks don’t stop you.

I’m trying to step back. It’s not happening, at least not the way I want it to. I’m afraid to give you what I know. I wish I could leave you alone.

If I really loved you, I’d leave you alone.

I can’t. Nearly every night, I call you, like a cut.


End file.
